


What happens on Ganthis stays on Ganthis

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Substitute AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an effort to distract himself from his problematic love life, Smokescreen pays a visit to his favourite casino on the moon Ganthis. But he soon finds that he’s not alone, and the one person he <i>really</i> doesn’t want to talk to has just bought him a drink.</p><p>CONTENT ADVICE: explicit consensual sticky sex, public sex, sex with a drone, drinking, gambling, infidelity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What happens on Ganthis stays on Ganthis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ayngelcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayngelcat/gifts).



> This is part of Ayngelcat's [Uninvited Guest series](http://the-cybercat.livejournal.com/tag/uninvited%20guest) and follows directly on from [Chapter 6](http://the-cybercat.livejournal.com/1829.html#cutid1) (which has some _very_ hot Smokey/Swindle smut).
> 
> This fic can be read as a one-shot PWP if you like, but it's best read as part of the series.

“Fragger,” Smokescreen sniffed. He shook the crystal dice and flicked them across the table. “Dunno what he thinks he’s doing here.”

The femme on Smokescreen’s arm peered around. “Who?” she said, then laughed as the trio of dice came to a halt in exactly the right configuration. “Nice roll, Smokey.”

“Huh?” He glanced down. “Oh, yeah.” The dealer pushed a heap of credits in Smokescreen’s direction. But the hot buzz of success was absent, and in its place was a queasy dread.

Vortex was standing at the bar.

He shouldn’t be here. This was Smokescreen’s hideout, his territory: the casino he came to when he needed to get away from it all. Like today.

The heliformer didn’t belong, especially after what he’d said. Coming on to Smokescreen in his own apartment, putting distance between him and Swindle. Playing them off against each other, making him doubt Swindle’s commitment to their relationship.

Tempting him.

The dealer handed back the dice. “Another roll, sir?”

The femme’s engine purred, her plating hot against Smokescreen’s arm. “Do it,” she said. “You’re on a winning streak.”

He tore his optics from Swindle’s supposed business partner, and nodded. “Yeah, why not.”

But the glittering facets no longer held his attention, and when the next roll went in his favour he hardly noticed. The femme gauged his disinterest and wandered off; his gambling companions carried on without him. The dealer swapped his credits for chips of a higher denomination – more money than he’d seen in a vorn – and still he couldn’t raise the charge to care as he dropped them in his subspace and stepped back from the table.

He should say something.

There were things Vortex needed to hear. Like how Swindle was with Smokescreen, and no amount of rotor flicking and polished flattery could ever change that. Like how they’d got a good thing going, and Vortex couldn’t just burst in on it, with his crude questions and unsubtle seduction, and reformat their lives for his own entertainment.

Smokescreen didn’t want to think about his own parting shot, his weakness and Vortex’s amusement. Playing him, coming on to him, then rejecting him the astrosecond Smokescreen gave in. It was just too embarrassing.

Smokescreen flexed his door wings and headed over to the bar. He absolutely did not feel a tingle in any part of his anatomy below the waist, oh no. And anything he did feel, that was just plain anger, and was completely healthy and had nothing at all to do with his interface hardware.

It was time to confront the bastard.

But somehow Smokescreen found his feet taking him to a clear space a good dozen mechanometers from the heliformer. His fuel pump raced and his capacitor gave an odd little twinge; maybe confrontation wasn’t such a great idea. He ordered a platinum sunrise and toyed with his creds while he waited for it to arrive.

The things Swindle had said about Vortex; what if they were true?

Smokescreen glanced over, then back again. Could just be Swindle bigging it up, making himself seem more important – more dangerous – by association.

But hadn’t Vortex himself hinted at some truly nasty goings on? And there was something about him, a sinister calm, like he was just waiting for an opportunity to do some real damage. A mech like that could be capable of anything.

Smokescreen’s drink arrived, and he looked around for a table. Somewhere he could keep an eye on Vortex, while he worked out exactly what he wanted to say.

Three drinks later, and he was comfortably installed in his own private booth, but he was no closer to an epiphany.

Vortex was still at the bar, steadily working his way through cube after cube of the kind of high grade Smokescreen would have killed for even a few vorns ago. The cubes looked ridiculously small in his hands, their frosted and etched glass far too fancy. Every so often someone would approach him – one of the casino’s good-luck femmes, a mech or two looking for some fun – but they were quickly rebuffed. Seemed all he was interested in was drinking.

Smokescreen was glad Swindle hadn’t come. Getting Swin to keep his optics off the copter had been hard enough the other night. He snorted into the dregs of his cocktail; good job Swin was safely in recharge back home. The state he was in, he’d be out for the better part of the cycle.

“Sir?” A new drink appeared on the table, a waitbot hovering behind it. Smokescreen recalibrated his optics as the fumes of super-refined high grade hit his olfactory sensors; his processor reeled.

“I didn’t order-” he began, but the waitbot cut him off.

“There is a message.” He nudged the glass to one side, revealing the corner of a card.

When he’d gone, Smokescreen lifted the glass and peeled off the little slip of plastic. He zoomed in on the glyphs.

‘ _It’s rude to stare._ ’

A blur of movement by the bar; Vortex was headed his way.

Scrap. Smokescreen’s circuits buzzed and his CPU whirled as he fought to think up the one incredibly suave and cutting remark that would put Vortex well and truly in his place.

But all that came were memories of the last time he’d seen the heliformer. Overcharged and over-eager, lounging next to Swindle, making inappropriate suggestions. So tempting, but so damned arrogant and condescending. And the way Smokescreen had shamed himself after Swindle had passed out…

“Move over.” Vortex didn’t wait for a response, but swung himself onto the seat beside Smokescreen, their armour clashing.

Smokescreen huffed. Where were all his witty one-liners? All the incredibly clever and erudite put downs he’d prepared for just this eventuality?

“For frag sake, drink up,” Vortex growled. He retracted his mask and downed the rest of his latest cube. Then the mask snapped back as he waved at a waitbot for another. “You still Swindle’s set of headlamps?”

“Am I _what?_ ” Smokescreen said, an indignant rage rising to eclipse the warmth of overcharge.

“Y’know, still screwin’ him,” Vortex said. His drink arrived and he toyed with it, his mask in place. “The frag you doing here all by yourself?”

Smokescreen went to pick up his own very expensive and very tasty-looking beverage, but something told him that now was not the time for getting slagfaced. “Swindle and I are very much together,” he said, injecting as much terse disapproval as he could into the statement. He tried to ignore the ache deep in his valve, and pressed on. “Swin’s working,” he added, and it wasn’t exactly a lie; Swin _would_ be working, when he woke up. “And what do you mean ‘all by myself’? I can go where I want.”

“Heh, sure.” There was a soft whirr as Vortex’s mask again slid aside, but this time he didn’t close it after taking a drink. He leant his elbows on the table and rubbed his knee against Smokescreen’s leg. “You’re not gonna get yourself into any trouble at all sitting here on your lonesome and staring at dangerous mechs, oh no.”

“Are, uh…” Smokescreen rebooted his vocal processors and started again. “Are you trying to hit on me?” He tried to make the question derisive, especially in light of their last conversation. But proximity to this mech – who in all probability was a cold-sparked, sadistic killer – was doing something completely inappropriate to his charge. He squeezed his thighs together and attempted a scowl.

Vortex laughed. “Like you haven’t been giving me the come-on all night.” He flashed Smokescreen a wicked grin and tapped him on the bumper. “Those optics of yours couldn’t get any bluer.”

Smokescreen shivered, and tried to suppress a smile. He was a Praxan, that kind of cheap line shouldn’t work on him. But rotors bounced in his peripheral vision, and his vents were full of the scent of strong alloys and expensive polish. “What are _you_ doing here all alone?” he said.

“Business,” Vortex snapped, his grin vanishing. “But a good little grounder like yourself wouldn’t want to know about that.”

“Who says?” The words were out before Smokescreen could stop himself. It was the challenge, he thought, all those hidden statements and implicit assumptions; it just pressed his buttons.

The evil grin returned, and it was as though all of Smokescreen’s charge raced to flood his interface circuits.

“Really?” Vortex said. He turned in his seat, looming in that incredibly attractive way of his, using his bulk to full advantage.

Smokescreen tensed, suddenly apprehensive of Vortex’s motivations. What if he wasn’t just after… what it felt like he was after? (Which, slagdamnit, he shouldn’t be getting after the stunt he pulled!) What if he actually wanted Smokescreen out of the way so he could have Swindle all to himself?

“Wha-eep!” Smokescreen yelped as Vortex clasped his codpiece. He was suddenly grateful for the table, which neatly covered the groping. And the background noise, which had grown with an influx of new customers.

“That’s a nice little sound you just made,” Vortex purred. “How about we see if I can get you makin’ another?”

“Here?” Smokescreen squeaked, then squirmed as Vortex tapped his valve cover.

“Uhuh,” he responded. “What’s the matter? You seemed keen enough on me the other night.”

Damn him to the pit for that. “And you said you weren’t interested!”

“I’m interested now,” Vortex stated.

Smokescreen squirmed, trying in vain not to think about that hand. “This is a public place!” But the heat rose with the charge, helped along by the not inconsiderable surplus of fuel sloshing around in his pipes. And beside, this’d show Swindle. Swin was always crowing about the copter, what cool, violent things he done, what a great working relationship they had.

Maybe Smokescreen should have his own conquest to gloat about.

“C’mon,” Vortex urged. “You want something fulfilling, you know you do. Something you can’t get back home…”

The answer to that was in the charge making his circuits hum, the lubricant trickling over nodes as his hardware prepared itself; in the thought of Vortex taking him right here in the bar.

Smokescreen whimpered a reply, and parted his legs. He shuffled around to make it look a bit less like Vortex was doing something between his thighs, then gave the command to draw back his valve cover. Oh frag, this was going to get him arrested. Or worse, banned from the casino. But his hardware needed attention, and it certainly wasn’t getting it from Swindle.

“Oh!” He froze, gripping the seat as Vortex felt his way gently around the rim of his valve. Now that really was nice. And naughty, very naughty. He risked a glimpse at the crowds near the bar and milling around the gaming tables. Surely someone would guess, but no-one seemed to.

“Mmmm, nice and slick,” Vortex whispered. “Maybe you’re not as uptight as you look.”

“’M not uptight,” Smokescreen protested, but the slight expansion as Vortex slid two fingers inside him cut all impulse to talk. He moaned softly, trying not to move, not to vent too hard. Trying not to do anything that would give him away while Swindle’s eye candy – now _his_ conquest – picked up a slow, even pace that hit the ache perfectly. “Oooooooooh…”

“You still wanna know why I’m here?” the heliformer grinned. “In this bar. All on my own.”

Smokescreen nodded, little jolts of pleasure zipping between the components of his valve, each stimulated node prompting a tiny buzz of euphoria.

“Had a contract,” Vortex said, as his fingers moved, rhythmically, stroking and teasing. “No-one you know. Not one of your kind. A very bad mech indeed.”

Smokescreen nodded, and tried not to groan. This was just too good. The oblivious crowds, the slipping, sliding filling feeling of those fingers, the sheer size and weight of Vortex pressed up against him. That wicked grin.

“He got away,” Vortex said, as his fingertips reached Smokescreen’s ceiling node, and the Praxan’s valve shuddered, contracting and pulsing in an overload he was helpless to resist.

“Uhuh?” Smokescreen’s fans roared, air howling through his vents. How could everyone else not hear it? But no-one seemed to.

“So there I was,” Vortex said, still caressing Smokescreen’s heated ceiling node, still making him want to cry out in joy at the release, to grab those rotors and pull the copter closer. “Standing at the bar trying to work out where that very bad mech could have gone.” Vortex withdrew his fingers, and pressed them to Smokescreen’s lips. “When I see this familiar little grounder eyeing me up.”

It was thrilling. Smokescreen didn’t think he’d ever done anything so wild and daring. He lapped at Vortex’s fingertips, cautiously at first, unsure about the taste of his own intimate lubricants. Then with enthusiasm, when Vortex’s optics flickered and a long, slow sigh escaped his vents.

“Uhhh, frag yeah…” Vortex’s engine growled, his energy field crackling. “Now suck.”

Smokescreen grinned around his fingers; Swindle was going to flip his lid.

“Mmmmm…” Vortex ground against him, and this time several people did turn to look. “Shut your hatch,” he demanded. “You’re coming with me.”

* * *

Smokescreen didn’t even hesitate.

He followed Vortex from the gaming floor into the elevator and up to the penthouse apartments. No paltry hundred-creds-a-night room for his conquest. Oh no, the heliformer got a suite to himself, dedicated room service, an oil bath, a cooler full of the best high grade, sculptures and art and resonant crystals…

It was beautiful.

It was also dangerous as the Pit. All kinds of scenarios whirled through Smokescreen’s mind, making his engine run alternately hot and cold. Vortex was violent, unstable. He was Onslaught’s top enforcer, his torturer if Swindle’s smug proclamations were anything to go by. He could do whatever he wanted to Smokescreen and no-one need ever find out.

It was one hell of a thrill.

“Nice place,” Smokescreen said, striving hard not to look too impressed. He paused by the floor-to-ceiling window. Cybertron loomed large in the star-speckled night, its highways and major buildings forming constellations of their own. He couldn’t help but sigh.

“You like that,” Vortex commented. He ran his hands over Smokescreen’s doorwings, his energy field a faint, enticing tingle.

Smokescreen nodded, his vents coming faster. The window showed a translucent reflection, his red and blue paint gleaming, with Vortex’s taller, darker form behind him. It was at once frightening and incredibly arousing. And the fliers outside, the shuttles and space cruisers flitting around the casino, would be able to see him: this high caste Praxan grounder, getting felt up by Onslaught’s interrogator.

“You wanted me,” Vortex reminded him. “That night at Swindle’s.”

Smokescreen opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn’t voice the lie. And he couldn’t bring himself to utter the correction, that it hadn’t been Swindle’s apartment, it had been his.

Those hands continued to roam, making his sensor net fritz and his armour buzz.

“You got a sweet little valve,” Vortex whispered, one hand sliding down between Smokescreen’s legs. “Bet you were thinking about riding me. Bet you wanna know what it is Swindle’s got himself all hot and bothered for?”

Smokescreen tried to wrench himself away, but Vortex’s grip was too strong.

“You said you weren’t fragging him!” he cried.

“I’m not,” Vortex said, pressing his chest against Smokescreen’s doors; the Praxan whimpered, unable to prevent himself from relaxing into the embrace. “But I’m going to ‘face with _you_ , just like you asked me to, and you’re going to love it.” He nibbled gently on the back of Smokescreen’s neck, while his fingers made the charge dance behind the Praxan’s closed panels. “When I’m done with you, you won’t even know what moon you’re on.”

“You’re, uh… sure of yourself,” Smokescreen panted. But his processor was already a little muzzy, his mental acuity dulled by the overcharge and his recent climax.

“Course I am,” Vortex said. He unwound himself from Smokescreen and settled on the large and comfortable-looking sofa. He patted his thigh. “Come here.”

Smokescreen had a moment of clarity, one lone astrosecond where he saw exactly where this was headed, and what would happen should Swindle find out. There would be hell to pay. Histrionics, fighting, yelling; Smokescreen would be the hypocrite, the one who’d claimed so loud and long not to have the hots for the copter, but who went ahead and fragged him anyway. The one who was jealous, who had double standards. He would be at fault for blowing Swindle’s chances of developing closer ties with Onslaught’s operation.

Swindle might leave him.

But where would Swindle go? To this large, powerful heliformer with his flame-red optics and complete disregard for social propriety? He couldn’t. Sure, Vortex was attractive, but there was no way he could offer what Smokescreen did.

“You’re staring again,” Vortex said quietly. He stretched, his rotors flexing and the blue accents on his bodywork catching the light.

Smokescreen drew a long, cooling vent, and banished all thought of Swindle from his mind. “You’re good to look at,” he said, each word crackling.

Vortex smiled and beckoned him closer, and this time Smokescreen obeyed. He couldn’t help himself; all that power, that danger, the strength of those arms, the cruel, seductive twist of those lips. Oh Primus, how could he resist?

And why would he want to?

He straddled Vortex’s lap, his knees pressing into the soft plush fabric of the seat. Vortex made a coded command, and the lights dimmed, turning a soft, cool blue; music began, a melody as slow and deep as the rhythmic pulsing of Smokescreen’s spark.

“Did Swindle ever bring you here?” Vortex asked. He slid his hands over Smokescreen’s thighs, seemingly enjoying the feel of the metal.

The touch helped dull the spear of jealousy. “He doesn’t come here much,” Smokescreen said, but it didn’t hide the truth.

“He should,” Vortex said. “Nothing but the best for his gorgeous little Praxan.”

Smokescreen wasn’t sure what to think of that, so he didn’t try. Instead, he melted into Vortex’s touch, every micron of his interface array burning for the slightest suggestion that Vortex was ready to take it to the next level.

But Vortex didn’t seem in any rush. “Swin’s lucky,” he said. “Mech like you to warm his recharge.”

“Uhuh,” Smokescreen agreed. Swindle _was_ lucky. And Vortex… Did he want what Swindle had? Not the physical pleasure – he was certainly getting that – but the emotional intimacy. Was that why Vortex had pursued him, why he’d been so keen on a threeway when Swindle had invited him over for drinks? It could explain his rejection of Smokescreen, the last-minute change-of-mind which allowed him to escape a situation where he might have got hurt.

It had never occurred to Smokescreen before that this mech might be lonely.

It was an appealing thought. But nowhere near as appealing as the idea that Smokescreen could do something about it.

“Bet the two of you look good together,” Vortex said. He gripped Smokescreen by the hips and tugged him closer, aligning their hardware. Then he flicked his glossa over Smokescreen’s bumper, while his fingers caressed the Praxan’s pelvic seams.

“Mmm!” Smokescreen writhed, clutching compulsively at Vortex’s shoulders. “Let’s… Let’s not talk about Swin,” he said.

“Feeling guilty?” Vortex teased, and bucked his hips so their covers bumped together.

“Oooooh!” Smokescreen’s head flew back, his valve pulsing with a needy ache. He could almost feel that spike, hot and charged and ready. “Not… guilty,” he protested. “Ooh frag, please...”

“Sure you are.” Vortex ground their hatches together, his grip tightening on Smokescreen’s thighs. “Every time I mention Swin, you get all tense… There you go again. It isn’t good for you. You need to let go. Have yourself some fun without all that emotional attachment scrap messin’ up your processor.”

“Sure. Course,” Smokescreen managed, but he didn’t want to think about it. He needed that spike, needed to feel it inside him. And he needed to know that he’d got there first, that this really _was_ his conquest. “Don’t you… want Swindle?”

“Ha! It’s eatin’ you, ain’t it?”

Smokescreen winced. “I…” but Vortex seized his wrist, and guided his hand down.

“Touch me.”

Smokescreen shuddered as hydraulics hissed and gears whirred. And oh, that was a _nice_ spike. His vents hitched, and his fingers tingled as he wrapped his hand around the shaft, the nodes crackling. His spark spun with a fierce, triumphant joy as Vortex relaxed, vents sighing and rotors vibrating against the seatback.

“Just like that,” he said. “Mmmm, you sure are somethin’.”

“I am?” Smokescreen said. But the ache was just too much, the feel of the spike in his hand a tantalising taste of what he _could_ have. He drew back the cover to his valve, the parts spiralling open. Lubricant trickled over nodes already primed and waiting, and he knelt up, guiding the tip of Vortex’s spike to his opening. “You want me?” he asked, and it was a far better question than did Vortex want Swindle.

The heliformer’s engine roared, his optics flickered. “No jealousy,” he said, and it was as though he was issuing a warning. “No regrets. Just this.” He thrust up, and Smokescreen’s CPU glitched. It was too much too soon, but oh frag it was good. The size of him – proportionate to his frame – so filling and stretching, it hit every node at once, every sensor screaming with the overwhelming pleasure of connection.

Smokescreen could do nothing but hold on as Vortex moved underneath him, those dark hands on Smokey’s hips, red optics holding his gaze. Vortex moaned, his lips quirking in a smile that had lost none of its wicked edge.

But as Smokescreen’s vents came quicker and his valve cycled down, clasping tight and-oh-so full in readiness for overload, Vortex slowed, then held him still.

“Oh frag,” Smokescreen panted. “Frag, I gotta finish!”

“Not yet,” Vortex grinned. “Never had a Praxan like you, wanna make you last. Hold my rotors.”

Smokescreen nodded and gripped the tips of the two highest blades where they projected above Vortex’s shoulders.

“Mmm, yeah, now stroke them like you’d stroke a spike. Ugh, oh scrap yes! Harder! Ahhhh, you got it.” Vortex began to thrust again, slowly, carefully. “Feels so good. You ever fragged a flier before?”

Smokescreen nodded. But… he hadn’t really, not like Vortex. Casual flings before he’d met Swindle, flirtations and liaisons with the kind of mechs that Prowl approved of. Some had been airframes, most grounders. But nothing at all like this. Metal shook in his hands, the rotors so smooth, and in their own way just as enticing as the firm thrumming heat of the spike in his valve. Prowl would never approve of this. “Tetra jets,” he said, feeling out the little rows of sensors with his thumbs. “But not a rotary.”

Vortex murmured an acknowledgement. Then, “Turn around,” he said. “And shutter your optics.”

The commanding tone buzzed right through him, and Smokescreen complied without thinking. He re-seated himself on Vortex’s spike, his back to Vortex’s chest, the copter’s hands on his doorwings.

“You got your optics off?” Vortex said.

“Uhuh, sure!” Smokescreen said, bringing the shutters down. He squirmed, rubbing the spike against his ceiling node, his doors flexing.

“Hands behind you,” Vortex demanded. “And don’t move them.”

Again, compliance. He half expected Vortex to cuff him, but the rotary slid an arm around his waist, tugging him back, and he moaned at the flutter of a glossa on his door hinges.

There was a sigh of air in front of him. Someone else was in the room? Smokescreen tensed, his optical shutters flying back up. “What the…”

“Told you not to look,” Vortex murmured. “Meant to be a surprise.”

A mark-five pleasure drone knelt in front of him, all polished chrome and sleek, pale highlights. It was without a doubt the most expensive single object Smokescreen had ever seen.

And it was looking right at him. Then Vortex’s hand was on his spike cover, and his voice rumbled through Smokescreen’s doors.

“Open up,” he growled, and Smokescreen could do nothing but obey.

The drone purred, taking his spike in its mouth, and Smokescreen groaned aloud as Vortex held him tight and began to move beneath him once again.

It was amazing. The stimulation, the heat, the intense focus on him and him alone. Vortex teasing his hinges, grinding his spike against every charged and sparking node in Smokescreen’s valve; the drone sucking and licking and making his spike feel as good as it had ever felt.

He couldn’t move, but he didn’t want to. And when overload finally hit, it hit all his systems in sequence. His spike flared, discharging hot and hard into the drone’s eager mouth. And his valve clenched tight as Vortex thrust ever faster, their armour scraping and clanging until the charge peaked and the current swept through them both, slamming through his spark and making it radiate in throbbing pulses of raw, glorious energy.

He fell back, coolant thundering through his systems. “Oh frag,” he said. “Oh…”

“Yeah,” Vortex responded. But he didn’t move, or allow Smokescreen to move, and instead clung to him as the drone shifted its attention from Smokescreen’s spike to the rim of his full valve.

“Ah!” Smokey bucked. “Scrap that tickles! Ummmph!”

“Over-sensitised, huh?” Vortex said, and laughed as Smokescreen could only nod his agreement. Finally, he withdrew, tugging Smokescreen back and waiting while the drone lapped the fluids from their equipment.

“Stay the cycle,” he said. “You’re far too tasty to only have the once.”

Stay? The idea made Smokescreen’s spark pulse anew. He sighed, suffused with a warm glow of satisfaction; he’d been right, Vortex needed him, needed something this good and wholesome and intimate in his life. And Swin was busy; what did it matter if he stayed out longer than planned? It wasn’t as though they’d be spending any time together anyway.

He brought Vortex’s hand to his mouth and sucked gently on the ends of his fingers. The responding moan sent a new ripple of charge through his circuits.

He smiled. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the next chapter, keep an eye on Ayngelcat's [fic journal](http://the-cybercat.livejournal.com/) :)


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